


Dogsbody

by fredbassett



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:19:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1499867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D’Artagnan meets with a strange misfortune on his way back to the garrison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dogsbody

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on the Dreamwidth Musketeers kink meme: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=1284797#cmt1284797, in which someone wanted d’Artagnan turned into a puppy. And naturally, this struck me as the best idea ever.

Paris in the rain in the depth of winter was not the best place to try to ride a horse at anything more than a walk, but d’Artagnan was in a hurry. Treville urgently needed the dispatches stowed in his saddle bag and the captain was not renowned for his patience with anyone who was late back from an assignment.

The street that led to the garrison was slippery with mud, night soil, and assorted detritus, all of which combined together into a foul, reeking muck kicked up by his horse to splatter any passersby who failed to get out of the way in time. Muttered curses followed his progress between the close press of houses. One, in a language he didn’t understand, sounded particularly vicious, but d’Artagnan had no time to apologise.

A moment later, his horse lost its footing and stumbled. D’Artagnan fought a losing battle for control and, to his unutterable shame and discomfiture, found himself being precipitated over his horse’s shoulder, heading face down into the filth of the gutter…

* * * * *

The laughter around him took on a surprised timbre.

“Where the fuck’s ‘ee gone?”

“Must ‘ave scuttled off into the alley…”

D’Artagnan coughed up a mouthful of shit and then sneezed loudly. From where he was lying, he had a perfect view of a pair of worn, filthy boots, a large pile of horseshit and a rotting cabbage. It wasn’t quite the way he was used to viewing the world, but then again he didn’t usually end up face down in the street. At least not unless a bellyful of alcohol or a brawl with the Red Guard had been involved, which on this occasion, most certainly was not the case.

He did his best to struggle to his feet, but something seemed to be keeping his nose in close proximity to the ground. He blinked in surprise and tried again.. This time it became obvious that the reason he couldn’t get up was that he was standing on his own ears.

His own long, brown, floppy ears.

D’Artagnan shook himself and promptly fell over in an uncoordinated heap of loose skin, short legs and paws that seemed too large for his body. A booted foot stamped down next to him and d’Artagnan growled. Even to his own ears it sounded unconvincing.

A boot impacted solidly with his belly and he flew through the air, slamming against the front wall of the tavern he frequented in his off-duty hours.

“Don’t you fucking growl at me!” D’Artagnan recognised the voice as belonging to one of the Cardinal’s men. The red guard, an ill-tempered bastard at the best of times, drew back his boot for another kick, but there was nothing d’Artagnan could do to avoid the man’s ire. The impact had driven the breath from his body, leaving him gasping and wheezing, wondering how the fuck he seemed to have ended up in the body of a small dog.

He did his best to scrabble away, but each paw decided to go in a different direction, and all he succeeded in doing was writhing around in the muck, no doubt looking as ridiculous as he felt.

“Pick on someone your own size,” said another familiar voice. One that he knew belonged to someone who wouldn’t kick a poor defenceless dog.

“Gone soft, have you, Porthos?” the man mocked. “I thought you three already had a puppy?”

D’Artagnan looked up just as Porthos’ hand large hand wrapped itself around the red guard’s neck and lifted him off the ground. D’Artagnan barked in excitement, and an unfamiliar sensation in the vicinity of his arse told him that he must be wagging his tail.

Porthos looked down and said, not unkindly, “I’d bugger off, if I was you, little ‘un.”

For a moment, hope flared inside d’Artganan’s chest. Porthos had spoken to him. Porthos knew who he was! But then he realised that Porthos was speaking in the same tone of voice he used when he was talking to his horse. Speaking of horses, d’Artagnan’s own mount was standing in the middle of the road, staring around, as though looking for him.

“Put him down, you don’t know where he’s been,” drawled Athos, sauntering out of the bar, an amused look on his face, as he watched the red guard’s eyes roll back in his head.

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” snapped Aramis. “That’s his horse!”

The horse snickered and bent its head – its very large head – down to blow through its nostrils at d’Artagnan, showering him with horse snot.

“Leave the little fella alone,” Porthos said, dropping the red guard into the filth of the street and stepping over him. The crowd who’d gathered to watch the altercation between the big musketeer and one of the Cardinal’s men shrank back under Porthos’ stare. “Where’s the man who was riding this horse?”

A one-eyed beggar cleared his throat noisily and spat a gobbet of phlegm within a few inches of d’Artagnan’s already wet nose. He growled, but even to his own ears it sounded half-hearted.

“Dunno. Fell off of ‘is ‘orse and must’a crawled away somewhere. Didn’t see where ‘ee went.” The man stuck his hand out as though expecting a reward.

“You’re out of luck. Pay day’s not till next week,” Porthos said cheerfully.

Aramis stepped up to the horse and quickly checked the saddle bags, looking for the dispatches he knew d’Artagnan had been carrying. “They’re still here,” he said quietly. “He’s not been robbed.”

“I already told ‘ee,” the beggar said belligerently. “The bugger fell off of ‘is ‘orse nobbut a few ‘eartbeats since. Ain’t no one ‘ad no time to nick owt.”

“Take the horse to the garrison and get those papers to Treville,” Athos said. “Porthos and I will find d’Artagnan.”

In an attempt to make life easier for them, d’Artagnan got up and walked – or more precisely, waddled – over to Athos and sat at his feet, looking up at him, still panting from the kick in the guts from the red guard, who had now rolled over onto his stomach and was fighting to draw breath. A thought occurred to d’Artagnan. There might be some advantages to this strange four-footed existence, after all…

He lifted one hind paw and promptly peed on the man’s leg, before scampering back to stand behind Athos and Porthos.

“Can’t blame him for that!” Porthos said. “He looks like there might be a bit of hound in him, Wonder if he can help us find d’Artagnan?”

“He looks like there’s a bit of every dog imaginable in him,” Athos commented. “Come on, Porthos, we’re wasting time, d’Artagnan can’t have gone far.”

* * * * *

They searched every alley around the tavern and then several more father afield, and totally failed to find d’Artagnan, regardless of the fact that he followed them around as best he could in a body that seemed ill-suited for walking. He tripped over his ears, got his paws tangled up and ended up nose down in crap more times than he cared to remember, but eventually, he started to get the hang of having four paws rather than two feet and keeping up with his two friends became slightly easier.

When they finally gave up the search amidst mounting irritation and puzzlement, Athos and Porthos made their way back to the garrison to report to Treville. Negotiating the wooden steps that led up to the captain’s office proved to be more of a challenge and, when he ended up at the bottom in a tangle of over-sized paws and floppy ears, d’Artagnan couldn’t stop himself yipping in frustration.

The only person who noticed was old Serge. Fortunately, the cook liked dogs, and d’Artagnan ended up in possession of a bone that Serge fished out of the stock pot. Trekking around the back streets of Paris in an unfamiliar body with remarkably short legs hadn’t been easy, and d’Artagnan surprised himself by flopping down contentedly in the courtyard and starting to chew the bone. It tasted remarkably good and d’Artagnan could feel his backside starting to sway again as his tail took on a life of its own.

When he heard the sound of booted feet clattering down the steps into the yard, d’Artagnan looked up.

“Maybe he’s gone to see the delightful Madame Bonacieux?” Aramis hazarded.

“Conveniently forgetting he was carrying important dispatches?” Athos sounded unconvinced.

“Young love?” Porthos said, looking as unconvinced as Athos sounded.

D’Artagnan reluctantly dropped his bone and waddled over to Porthos’s feet.

“Still ‘ere?” Porthos said in surprise, reaching down to scratch behind d’Artagnan’s floppy ears.

It felt good and d’Artagnan butted his head against Porthos’ large hand, encouraging him to carry on. He couldn’t really remember why he was following the three men around, but they seemed nice, and there were bones here, and no one had kicked him recently, so he thought this was a good place to be.

Strong fingers picked him up by the scruff of his neck and he found himself sitting on the big man’s leather-clad knees.

“Poor little bugger’s not much more than skin and bone.”

D’Artagnan stared devotedly up at the man, hoping for some more of that nice ear scratching. What he happened instead was that he found himself being turned onto his back while a large hand rubbed his belly. D’Artagnan waggled all four paws in the air and wriggled madly. That was even nicer than the ear thing, but he couldn’t help yipping slightly when the man’s hand touched the sore spot where he’d been kicked. He couldn’t remember why he’d been kicked. His memories of that had already started to fade, and although he didn’t know why he’d followed these me here that didn’t seem to matter any more.

He liked it here.

* * * * *

“We need to keep looking for him,” Porthos said, slamming his hand onto the table in frustration. “He must be somewhere!”

The familiar weight of Aramis’ hand on his shoulder did little to ease the hard knot of worry that had settled on his stomach when he’d realised that their friend really was missing. That he wasn’t with Madame Bonacieux or sleeping off a bad head in any of their usual haunts.

“We’ll find him,” Aramis said. “But it’s now pitch black and there’s little more we can do tonight.”

“We can start again at first light,” Athos said, sounding uncharacteristically weary. “We all need some sleep.”

Instead of going back to their lodgings, by unspoken agreement the three men made their way to the sparsely furnished bunkroom they sometimes shared in the garrison, containing nothing more than three narrow beds and a mattress on the floor that they’d appropriated for d’Artagnan after he’d joined their group.

It had been pouring with rain for the last couple of hours of their search, but none of them did more than remove their jackets and boots. Stripping down to their underclothes and gaining some measure of comfort seemed somehow to be a betrayal of their lost friend.

Just as Porthos was about to close the door, a scrabble of paws sounded on the wooden floor and a small, furry shape shot between his legs. The puppy had been following them around all day, an almost comical air of bewilderment on its little face. It was an ungainly mutt with short legs and long ears that had a habit of ending up under its over-sized paws, precipitating the puppy muzzle first into the ground.

For all its matted hair and the unmistakeable aroma of wet dog, it was an affectionate little beast, wriggling happily when Porthos stroked its ears or rubbed its mucky belly, and he didn’t have the heart to throw it back outside into the rain. The puppy deserved some reward for sticking to them like glue throughout a long afternoon and evening of searching for d’Artagnan, even though it must be exhausted from having trotted to keep up with them for hours.

“If we end up with fleas, I’m blaming you,” Athos muttered, throwing himself down on his bed and turning to face the wall.

“And who was it who gave him half the meat out of his stew earlier on?” Porthos said, grinning in the darkness.

Athos grunted and didn’t reply.

In fact, they’d all ended up sharing something of their meals with the puppy. There had been something about its large, brown eyes that had proved impossible to resist. Athos had fished out some pieces of meat that the little creature had instantly wolfed down and chunks of bread dipped into the rich gravy by Aramis had been equally welcomed.

Porthos settled himself down on the bed and wasn’t surprised when the puppy jumped up next to him and curled into a tight ball, tucked up against his belly. He pulled his blanket over the pair of them, put his arm around the little dog and promptly fell asleep.

* * * * *

“Mon dieu! You led us a merry dance yesterday!”

Aramis’ voice dragged d’Artagnan out of sleep. He rolled over onto his side and promptly fell out of bed, landing on the wooden floor with a heavy thump. He’d been displaced by an elbow in the ribs, and found himself staring up at a pair of confused dark eyes.

Porthos ran his fingers through his short hair and blinked like a startled owl. Aramis looked equally startled.

Athos, sober for once, despite the early hour, stared at d’Artagnan out of narrowed eyes. “There had better be a good explanation for this, whelp.”

And d’Artagnan was sure there was.

But for the life of him, as he fought against an almost irresistible urge to wiggle his arse endearingly, he couldn’t think what that explanation might be.


End file.
